


The Inn on the Magdred Way

by CDRomelle



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aftermath of the War, Ashedue Week (Fire Emblem), Kissing, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Verdant Wind Spoilers, verdant wind timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CDRomelle/pseuds/CDRomelle
Summary: It was the first building Dedue had seen for miles. Nothing else around it but the burned husks of buildings—casualties of the war—their dark shapes blurring into gray snow as the last dregs of sunlight drained away over frozen pine trees.He should have moved on.It was the smell of fresh-baked bread that hooked him like a fish on the line.Sourdough. Just like he used to make... with him.An Ashe/Dedue fic set in the Verdant Wind timeline, after the war.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 24
Kudos: 104





	1. Journey Interrupted

It happened at an old, worn-down inn along the road leading north out of Magdred. 

For all the months since Enbarr Dedue had avoided inns, preferring to sleep outside or in one of the many abandoned buildings left in the wide wake of the war. This inn should have been no different. 

It was the first building he had seen for miles. Nothing else around it but the burned husks of buildings—casualties of the war—their dark shapes blurring into gray snow as the last dregs of sunlight drained away over frozen pine trees. 

He should have moved on. 

It was the smell of fresh-baked bread that hooked him like a fish on the line. 

He stopped in the middle of the road, cold seeping in through the soles of his shoes, to smell it. 

It was a sourdough, whatever this innkeeper had in the oven. The warm tang of it grew stronger as Dedue approached the rickety door, boots crunching in the old snow, unable to deny himself this little comfort. It smelled just like his mother used to make when he was a child. Just like he used to make at Garreg Mach, where he passed on the recipe to—

A shadow fell across the line of light between the door and the post. And with it, a flash of clarity. 

The door opened, and it was him. 

His silver hair framed by the fire behind him, his face half in shadow but his sea-green eyes unmistakable, Ashe Ubert put a shaking hand to his mouth.

“Dedue…” 

The voice shifted something inside of Dedue, something buried deep and long since scarred over. 

“Ashe,” he said. Savoring the sound of the name. 

Ashe extended a hand toward him. Brushed at the front of Dedue's breastplate, clutched his sleeve. “I… I thought you were dead.”

Whatever had moved inside Dedue shifted back into place. He bowed his head.

“I am alive, to my shame.”

“Oh…” Ashe rocked back on his toes, an aborted hug. He frowned, just a flicker across his face, and then he opened the door wider. “Come in, come in! I’m baking bread—”

“Sourdough,” Dedue said. 

Ashe’s eyes flicked up to him. For the first time, he smiled. “Yeah. Yeah. Your mother’s recipe.” 

Dedue let himself be herded through the inn’s small entrance way and empty dining room on through to the kitchen, an even smaller room dwarfed by its enormous roaring hearth. 

“Sit, sit,” said Ashe as he roved about the kitchen bringing food to Dedue: thick slices of fresh sourdough, a generous dollop of butter, blackberry jam, slices of hard cheese, pickled string beans, dried apricots, salted pork jerky. 

As he ate, Dedue watched the flickering hearthlight dance across taut freckled skin. Six years had not been kind to Ashe, either. He was a bit taller than he was at the monastery, his shoulders broader and his forearms and exposed collarbone wiry with muscle, but he was lean— skinny even, his cheekbones just a touch too harsh on a face stripped of its baby fat. His silver hair had grown out, long enough to tie in a short tail at the base of his neck. A whisper of silver stubble even speckled his cheeks and chin, glittering in the firelight. 

“Do you want water? Milk? Oh, there’s beer, I opened a growler earlier—”

“Ashe, this is perfect. Please, sit with me.” 

“Okay.” 

Ashe still got him the water and the beer before dragging a chair over to sit next to Dedue at the kitchen table. 

And for a moment it was like they were back in school, baking together after a late night of studying, sampling the fruits of their labor before they slipped off to bed. No need to speak, only to be in each other’s quiet, steady company. 

Ashe must have felt it too. He sat in silence as Dedue ate, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the faint creak and howl of cold night wind. 

When Dedue finally cleaned his plate, the smile Ashe gave was small but sweet, just a little wobbly, as he opened his mouth and asked: 

“Are you here to kill me?”

The bread turned to dust in Dedue’s mouth. 

“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “Ashe…”

The smile didn’t leave Ashe’s face. He just waited. So calm, he was too calm for the terrible vision he had painted in Dedue’s mind. Dedue wished he would stop smiling. “Ashe,” he said again. “Why would I…” 

“Because I broke my oath to Dimitri. I failed him.” 

For months now, despite the crushing heaviness of his Faerghus armor, Dedue had never once hunched his shoulders or bent his spine. But now—his shoulders caved in, just a little. A small, tectonic adjustment. 

Then he hoisted them back into place. 

“Ashe,” he said, placing his hand over Ashe’s on the table. “If you deserve death then so do I. No one failed him more than me.”

Ashe’s hand twitched under Dedue’s. “Oh, Dedue...”

Then Ashe stood up, and put his arm around him. 

It was an awkward hug, Dedue’s face pressed against Ashe’s stomach, Ashe a bit bent over to keep his hand under Dedue’s on the table. But Ashe smelled like firewood and sourdough, and it was the first time anyone had touched Dedue in a very long time. 

* * *

Despite its remote northern location, or perhaps because of it, the inn had only one free room remaining that night. 

“The place does all right, I suppose,” Ashe told him as he led the way up a narrow stairway with a flickering candle in his hand for light. “Sometimes a caravan or a battalion comes through and the place is full up. But most nights there’s a few rooms free, so I take one of them for myself.”

“What do you do when it’s full?” Dedue asked. 

“I sleep in the kitchen. It’s no Officer’s Academy, but it’s nice and warm.”

“I see.” A roof and a warm fire was far from the worst place to bed down. Dedue had slept in worse. He knew Ashe had too. 

The room Ashe showed him into was much smaller than their enormous quarters at Garreg Mach: little more than a low-slung bed, a nightstand with an empty ewer, and an open, empty wardrobe. Ashe brought him lye soap, a rag, and a pail of freshly boiled water which he poured into the ewer, then left so Dedue could wash up in privacy. 

Alone in the dark room with only the candle Ashe left him for light, Dedue started to remove his armor. The metal was cold to the touch, the plate heavy in his hands as he placed it carefully on the floor, piece by piece. He reached around to unbuckle his pauldrons and his shoulder twinged at the unfamiliar motion. How long had it been since he took this off? Since his shoulders were free of this weight?

His shirt and pants were almost as difficult to remove as the armor, stiff and gritty with old sweat. Dedue stripped it all off. 

Naked in the dark, he had half an impulse to pick up the candle and examine his body. He dismissed it quickly. No point in that. Instead he picked up the rag Ashe left him, wetted it in the water, and rubbed it with soap. 

The first touch of the rag was hot, almost stinging, on his chilled skin, but as he stroked the soapy fabric over himself the sensation turned into a pleasure all too fleeting as each wet stripe of skin turned to gooseflesh in the cold air. 

That’s just how it is in Faerghus, he reminded himself. Nothing here lasts. 

When he was done, Dedue dried himself with a second rag, then slipped on the only spare clothes he had, a pair of undergarments and a loose tunic that went halfway down his thighs. He was washing his clothes in the murky ewer water when Ashe knocked again. 

“You may come in.”

Ashe jumped when he saw him, had to stop himself from turning away. “Sorry,” he said, his once-lighthearted voice a little rough. “I shouldn’t have interrupted, I just wanted to check up on you.” 

Dedue frowned. “Are you not sleeping here as well?”

“O-oh, I—the kitchen—I thought you would want—”

Dedue looked at the bed. It was about the size of their beds at the monastery but much less fine, just a straw mattress piled with ancient-looking knitted blankets. Dedue had slept in far closer quarters before, during the war, and side-by-side with people he liked far less than Ashe. 

“Ashe,” he said quietly. “I do not wish to take a bed from you. Sleep here, and I will sleep in the kitchen.” 

“No, please. Take the bed. I insist.” 

“I cannot do that.” 

Ashe laughed, this new laugh of his, so similar to the bright, cheery giggle Dedue remembered, but so different. “At this rate we’ll both end up on the kitchen floor and the bed will stay empty.”

“Then perhaps it would be preferable to share the bed.”

Ashe smiled at him, his face rosy in the flickering candlelight. 

“I’m game if you are.” 

A few more minutes of brushing teeth and hanging wet clothes to dry, and then Dedue and Ashe lay side-by-side on the bed. Dedue had taken the side nearest the door almost without thinking about it. 

The room was a bit warmer now, with two of them breathing in this small space. Still, Dedue pulled the topmost knit up to his chin. He blew out the candle and closed his eyes on the darkness. 

“I can’t believe you’re alive.” In the near-total silence, Ashe’s voice sounded almost magical. 

Dedue turned his head. “You as well.”

That seemed to surprise Ashe. “You—thought I was dead?”

“When I escaped Fhirdiad, with the help of my countrymen, I asked after you. They told me Gaspard had been the first to fall to the Empire’s advance.” 

“Yeah,” Ashe said. He shifted a little bit. Ashe had younger siblings, Dedue remembered. If he was here alone, so far north of Gaspard territory, then that must mean...

He wanted to touch Ashe, to hold his chin and caress his hair. Instead Dedue said, “Ashe, forgive me. I should not have brought it up.” 

“Dedue…” The shape of him in the shadows rolled onto his side, facing Dedue. “Thank you.” 

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Dedue said. “For your food and hospitality.” 

“Of course!” said Ashe. “It’s the least I—Of course.” 

“Good night, Ashe.”

“Good night, Dedue.” 

* * *

Dedue was a light sleeper—he had been for, gods, almost ten years now—but he did not notice Ashe get up the next morning. 

It was just barely dawn, but when Dedue went down to the kitchen Ashe was already there, coaxing the embers back into a flame with some leaves and twigs. He turned around as soon as he heard Dedue’s heavy footfalls. 

“Ahh, no, I wanted to get breakfast ready for you before you left!” he said, then, with a big smile: “I guess that just means you’ll have to stay a bit longer.” 

“I should really be going,” Dedue said. 

Ashe’s smile didn’t fade, just turned bittersweet. “I knew you’d say that. But please, at least stay the morning. Let me make you something to eat on the road.” 

Dedue nodded. “Allow me to gather firewood for you, then.” 

Ashe chuckled. “I’d tell you not to worry about it, but I know you’ll just do it anyway. So… thank you.” 

After the warm and cozy kitchen, the air outside was cold and bracing. As Dedue walked around the back of the inn toward the treeline, his boots crunched over half-frozen plants and loose dirt that he only now, in the light, recognized as the remains of a garden. Judging by the weeds it was little more than a year ago that vegetables and flowers had beringed the inn. 

Carefully, Dedue withdrew his foot and walked around the erstwhile garden. Beyond it was a small pile of unsplit logs and a hatchet embedded in a stump. Dedue yanked the hatchet free and got to work. 

An hour later, he returned to the kitchen with a pile of logs in his arms and a light sweat all over his body. 

“I thought you’d left,” Ashe said, then turned around. “Wow, Dedue! That’s—thank you!” 

“It is no problem.” Dedue squatted to place the logs by the fire, keeping his back ramrod straight. He stood again, brushed his hands off, then held them by his sides. “While I was out there, I noticed the remains of a garden.” 

“Oh, yeah.” Ashe threw one of the fresh logs onto the fire and started poking it. He already had two loaves of bread in the ovens built into the wall next to the hearth, and on the table was a half of a smoked deer he’d been cutting into strips for jerky. “It was like that when I found this place. I haven’t been able to find the time to give it the attention it needs.” 

“Perhaps I could.” 

“Hm?”

“Would my services as a gardener be satisfactory recompense for an additional day’s room and board?”

“Dedue!” Ashe spun to his feet, and for a second Dedue thought he was going to hug him. But he just said, “That would be great, Dedue. I would really like that.” 

It took Dedue all day just to break up the half-frozen dirt enough to start pulling up weeds. So he had to stay another day, to actually start clearing weeds and collecting any vegetable bulbs or root systems worth saving. By the end of the second day he had discovered the copse of apple trees growing among the pines, and those needed some space and pruning if they were to flower this spring. 

Three days turned into a week, and a week turned into two. 

Every day Dedue worked outside, coaxing the frozen ground to reshape itself for life, reminding long-dormant plants that spring would one day return. And as the sun set he walked back to the inn, sweat already turning chill on his skin, and helped Ashe cook dinner for any tenants the inn might have: rabbit or crow or whatever else Ashe had managed to bag on his daily hunting trips, roasted with wild mushrooms or dried peppers and some of the butter and salt Ashe had to ride over an hour to trade for. 

In the evenings, thanks to Dedue’s help, they had time to do what Ashe called “dream chores”: drying wildflowers and pressing them into soap to give it a scent other than the acrid bite of lye; cleaning the hides of the animals Ashe hunted for game to make leather and fur; experimenting with recipes despite their meager ingredients (pine needle bread was gross; acorn bread was passable). Ashe even started growing herbs for tea in a planter in the kitchen, with the promise that they would be able to have tea together in just a few weeks, “Just like back in school.” 

Every night, Dedue lay down beside Ashe, either in a bed or on piled furs and knit blankets on the kitchen floor, and they talked, for a bit, before exhaustion overtook them. Ashe knew how to ask questions without pushing, how to ask for only the things Dedue was willing to give him. 

Soon, there was very little Dedue was unwilling to give him. 

Dedue told Ashe about his imprisonment in Fhirdiad and escape, about his reunion with Dimitri and about Gronder Field. He told him about holding the broken body of the man to whom Dedue had tethered his own life when he had nothing left to hold on to, the body of the man on whom Dedue had staked all his hopes. 

He told Ashe about vowing to finish Prince Dimitri’s mission to kill Edelgard. About his one-man march on Enbarr, his plan to use the Leicester invasion as cover to enter the palace. He told Ashe he hadn’t expected to survive it. He told Ashe, realizing it for the first time as he said it, that he hadn’t even hoped to survive it. 

And he told Ashe about how Claude von Riegan had surprised him, had even gone out the way to protect him during the assault on the throne room. How Dedue had found himself fighting alongside his old classmates in the Golden Deer. How Byleth’s sword had ended the reign of Emperor Edelgard. 

How he had slipped back out of the palace during the ensuing chaos. Had wandered for weeks and months, his weary feet slowly taking him north out of Enbarr, into Faerghus, up the old Magdred way. If Ashe noticed Dedue had been headed toward Duscur before he stopped at this old inn, he said nothing. Never pressed him, never questioned him. Only listened. 

Dedue appreciated it more than he had words to say. 

He also found himself wishing that Ashe would share more about his own life in the six years since their school days. He gathered that Ashe had been in Gaspard when the Empire invaded, and assumed Ashe had spent much of the following years in an Imperial prison. It would explain his gauntness, his long silences. Or perhaps Ashe had been on the road, seeking Prince Dimitri as he dodged Imperial and Dukedom patrols. Surely if he had been free, Ashe would have tried to find the prince. Dedue didn't begrudge the fact that Ashe never managed it; he himself had looked for years, with the help of his countrymen, trying to locate the roving prince and his small warband. 

All Dedue knew for sure was that Ashe eventually found this inn, abandoned on a road littered with the remnants of war. He liked to talk about the inn. At first the place was just a roof over his head as both the winter and the war grew worse, but eventually other travelers stopped in, asking for shelter. It had reminded Ashe that he used to love to cook and care for people. As Faerghus fell under the merciless grip of their first winter without a Blaiddyd, Ashe had occupied himself with boarding up cracks, knitting blankets, pickling vegetables and smoking meat, and making sure the travelers along the Magdred Way had a place to sleep. 

Listening to Ashe talk about the inn late at night, his whole body heavy with a pleasant weariness, was Dedue's favorite part of the day. He could not remember the last time he had gone so long without wearing armor. 

Ashe never asked how long Dedue planned to stay. Dedue never brought it up. He simply stayed. The armor gathered dust in the corner of the kitchen. 

Then it was early spring, which in Faerghus is still colder than winter in Enbarr, but to Dedue everything in the inn felt like warmth now. Travelers started to brave the thawing roads. One evening Dedue came in to find Ashe chatting in the dining room with a tall, broad-shouldered man who had Ashe's hands in both of his. 

"Dedue," Ashe said as he approached. "This is Dart. He was my first guest at the inn." 

"That's putting it kindly," the man called Dart laughed. "Out here all alone I was, dead of winter, war'd half-killed me and Faerghus herself itching for the other half. Found this inn, thought to take shelter, find myself looking down a drawn bow. Inn's already claimed. Right, then. Rather die in the cold than bleed out like a stuck pig, says I, so I mean to take my leave when the archer bids me come in after all. Plenty of space, he says. Feeds and waters me. Gruel never tasted so good." The big man's voice caught. "Weren't able to pay him then," he said gruffly. "So here I am. Salt cod and a jug of Brigid rum." 

"This is too much," Ashe protested. "The rum alone—" 

"Now look here," said Dart, even gruffer than before. "A man's got a right to price his own life. And, well, if another fellow tells a man to his face that his life's cheaper than he declares it, well—" 

"I'll take it!" Ashe said quickly. "Thank you very much, honored guest." 

"Hm." Dart cleared his throat. "An honor, sir, an honor. Sir. Sir." He wrung Ashe's hand again, then Dedue's, then clapped Ashe on the shoulder one last time and strode out of the inn, wiping his face on his shoulder as he went. 

Ashe looked stunned. "I can't believe—I didn't think—" He shifted the jug of rum. "I was half-dead myself at the time. I stood watch all night with my bow half-drawn, ready to shoot if he tried anything." 

"Why did you let him in if you thought he might kill you?"

Ashe laughed, soft and careworn. "Because a part of me still wants to be the knight I dreamed of being." 

"You are a knight," said Dedue. "You fought in the war. You are one of the noblest knights I have ever known." 

Ashe smiled, but it faded quickly and didn't reach his eyes. "I… should put this away." He hefted the jug and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Dedue watched him go. 

That night, as they lay in a spare bed together and Ashe reached to snuff out the candle, Dedue said, "I was heading for Duscur." 

Ashe withdrew his hand from the candle's flickering flame. "Yes?"

"That's why I'm here. I was… I ought to have been… just passing through." 

"Do you miss it?" Ashe asked. 

"I have not been there for seven years." Which wasn't really an answer. He took a deep breath. "It is… very hard." 

Ashe exhaled through his nose. Candlelight danced on the freckles stretched taut over his cheekbones as he said, "You can stay here as long as you want, you know. I won't keep you here, of course. I have no right to ask you to stay. But I like it when you're here." 

Dedue turned his head on the pillow. "Ashe, you can ask anything of me." 

Shadows flickered on the wall. 

Dedue waited. 

But Ashe only said, "Thank you, Dedue. You can ask anything of me, too." 

Then he snuffed out the candle, and the room was dark. 

On the same day that Ashe determined the tea plants were ready to be picked and dried, a Leicester caravan rolled up the road, 

Dedue listened from inside the inn as the head of the caravan gave her name as Judith von Daphnel, and her destination as Duscur. 

“Food and medical supplies,” she said. Through the shutters, Dedue saw her gesture at the wagons lined up on the road. “And some soldiers in case old Kleimann decides to dig in his heels. All part of Claude von Riegan and Byleth Eisner’s plan to restore Duscur and begin to atone for the wrongs done there.” Judith turned her sharp eyes to Ashe. “I assume that won’t be a problem for you?”

“Not at all,” Ashe said. “I’m glad.” 

“Hm.” Judith returned her gaze to him. “Do I know you?”

“I—I don’t think so.” Ashe stammered. 

Dedue left the inn out the back door through the kitchen. He spent the rest of the day behind the treeline, chopping firewood and pruning the apple trees and collecting juniper berries. He didn't come back in until well after dark, when the inn was quiet. 

Ashe lay on the kitchen floor before the hearth's embers. He twitched when Dedue entered, letting in a cold blast of air with him, but did not open his eyes. Food was on the table: a trencher of dry acorn bread, strips of salted venison, a still-steaming mug of pine needle tea. A spoonful of blackberry jam as dessert. 

Dedue ate quietly, washed up in the bowl of water Ashe had left for him, and, in the last of the light, laid down in the spot on the quilts Ashe had left for him. 

Ashe stirred again as he moved the blankets. "Are you okay?" he asked, bleary-voiced. 

"Yes," Dedue said, surprised. He propped himself up on his arm. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were outside all day." 

"I am often outside all day." 

In the fading light, Ashe turned to look at him. "Okay." He didn't stop looking. "Should I make you some travel rations?"

Dedue lay all the way down, flat on his back. The weight on his chest was heavier than gravity, heavier than armor. 

"Duscur does not need me," he said. 

Ashe didn't press further. Dedue could feel the warmth of his body beneath the blankets, even across the gap between them. 

But still, he felt cold.


	2. Cold Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I… am so relieved. All day, I kept thinking—that lake is a mile away." 
> 
> Ashe's lips crooked, a mirthless smile. It only made Dedue feel more torrential, more flooded with ruthless relief. 
> 
> "How…" He stopped himself. He should know better by now, to tempt fate. 
> 
> But Ashe said, "What is it?" so Dedue asked: 
> 
> "How did you make it all the way back?"
> 
> The blankets rose and fell as Ashe breathed. He looked away, then back. "I wanted to live," he said. 

After the battle of Enbarr, Dedue had remained in the ruined city for several weeks, tending his wounds, repairing his armor, waiting for the skirmishes and unrest to settle down. His task was complete, his enemies cold, his oaths either fulfilled or irreparably broken. Nowhere to go, and only one road before him. 

He did not linger, but neither did he rush to leave.

It wasn't homesickness that finally steered his feet north toward Duscur. It wasn't an oath, or a duty. It was the same reason a condemned prisoner walks of his own power to the chopping block. To resist would be not just undignified, but futile.

He walked for months, through Adrestia, over the Oghma Mountains, into Faerghus and north along the Magdred Way. With every step dreading the final, inexorable destination. 

And now he was here. Under the same roof as a battalion of southerners riding to aid Duscur. Lying in the dark on the floor of an inn beneath musty knitted blankets. Next to Ashe. 

Ashe, whose brows knitted upward as he slept, the shape of something like relief. 

————

The Leicester caravan left early the next day. Ashe had left before dawn to hunt, as the soldiers had eaten all of their fresh meat and most of their jerky. That left Dedue to prepare breakfast and see their guests off. A task he usually enjoyed. 

He headed downstairs, bracing himself with every step. 

The sky was a dark, formless grey—dawns last hours in Faerghus winters—and the dining room was long shadows arrayed around the smouldering hearth fire. Dedue raked the coals, throwing on a few pine branches to make the smoke sweeter, then headed into the kitchen to wake the oven fire. 

By the time the food was done—a fried egg on a thick slice of acorn-flour bread—the soldiers were awake, already outside saddling the horses and filling their canteens with fresh snow. Dedue placed the tray of eggs and bread in the dining room and rang the bell, then went back to the kitchen. He still had yesterday's juniper berries to turn into jam, and some roots and bark to cut and dry for broth. And then he'd put on a pot of tea for Ashe when he got back, and—

Someone was watching him. 

Dedue turned. 

The woman called Judith was in the kitchen doorway, a piece of crust in her hand. 

"Can I help you?" he said. 

"For what it's worth, I don't ask this of every man of Duscur I meet," she said, "but—are you Dedue Molinaro?"

His heart whistling like a boiling kettle, Dedue said, "Yes." 

"You look exactly like Claude von Riegan described you. If the scars didn't give it away, the scarf would." 

Dedue said nothing. 

"I would ask you to come to Duscur with us, but if you've made it this far you'll have your reasons for not finishing the trip," she said. "But you should know Claude has been looking for you. He wants to restore Duscur, and he wants your advice on doing so." 

"My advice is not worth the breath wasted on it." 

Judith popped the crust in her mouth and chewed, still watching him. "Have it your way," she said finally. She turned to go, then put her hand on the doorpost. "I thought the other innkeeper was Ashe Gaspard, but I must be mistaken if you're here, too." 

"What does that mean?"

"Claude was quite forgiving. Maybe a bit too forgiving, if you ask me. I thought that you, as one of Prince Dimitri's closest allies, would feel differently." 

Dedue wanted to cross his arms, but Fodlan people always reacted badly when he did that. He held his arms stiff at his sides, and said nothing. 

"Maybe I'm just losing my knack for faces," Judith sighed. She stretched her arms over her head. "Well, it's time for us to leave. Thanks for the food and the hospitality, Sir Molinaro." 

And she was gone. 

A few minutes later, Dedue heard the rumble of the caravan departing. 

He went out to the back of the inn, where the apple trees grew, and stood among them until the sound of the caravan faded beneath the swish and creak of wind in the branches. The trees were beginning to bud. He touched one of the little green dots, imagining the crisp taste of apples in August. Then he went back inside. 

Dedue forgot to wash half the juniper berries. He washed the other half three times. He put the kettle on for tea and then went upstairs to empty the chamberpots, and when he was done the water had all boiled away. In his rush to remake the tea he dropped half the pine needles, and when it was done he nicked his finger chopping the chicory roots. 

Where was Ashe? 

It was midmorning by the time the kitchen door banged open and Ashe stumbled in. 

The first thing Dedue noticed was the frost in his hair. Water dripped off him as Ashe stumbled toward the hearth, clutching his chest and shaking. He made it two steps into the room and collapsed. 

Dedue dropped to his knees beside him. Ashe was soaking wet and ice-cold, shaking so hard Dedue almost fumbled him as he rolled him over, pulled him up against his chest. 

"F-fell in the lake," Ashe stammered. "Guess spring's… closer than I thought?" A small, chattery smile. 

"Don't speak," Dedue said. "Conserve your energy. Stay here by the fire. I will come back with a blanket and clothes. Do you understand me?"

Ashe nodded, his eyes slipping closed. 

Dedue got his arms under Ashe's shoulders and knees, lifted him up and carried him across the kitchen to lay him on the hearth's warm flagstones. 

"I will be right back." 

Ashe grunted. 

Dedue had never run so fast in his life before. He stormed up the stairs, barrelled into the first room on the landing. The blankets were still mussed from last night's guests. That didn't matter now. Dedue swept them into his arms and ran back downstairs. 

Ashe was where he left him, curled on his side facing the fire with his arms crossed over his chest. He moaned when Dedue knelt by him. 

"Ashe," Dedue said. "I must remove your wet clothes. Forgive me." Ashe's whole body was clenched so hard that Dedue had to almost wrestle with stiff, shaking limbs to get the clothes off. It took far too long; Ashe's hands and feet and cheeks were bluish grey, his eyes sunken. Finally, Dedue dragged the blankets over him, then rolled Ashe over to tuck them in. 

"Are you warm?" he asked, knowing the answer before Ashe shook his head with a groan. "You will be," he said. "You will." 

"S-stay," said Ashe. 

"I will," said Dedue. 

He lay down on the floor behind him and scooted over until Ashe's back was pressed to his chest, Ashe's head tucked under Dedue's chin. Ashe gave one last violent shudder, then seemed, at last, to settle. Dedue could feel him breathing and trembling through the blankets. 

Dedue closed his eyes. He was glad he had already emptied the chamberpots. 

——-

Ashe slept for the rest of the day. Dedue left his side only to make more tea, which Ashe sipped weakly through chapped lips. Unwilling to leave him for too long, Dedue rubbed Ashe's arms and back and clammy forehead, or dozed with his arm around him. 

It was dark again by the time Ashe stirred in earnest. Dedue helped him to his feet, a bracing arm around his back as Ashe relieved himself into a chamberpot, then Dedue hoisted him into his arms, blankets and all, to carry him upstairs. 

"S-sorry," Ashe whispered, his breath fluttery against Dedue's ear.

"You have nothing to apologize for." 

Ashe leaned his forehead into Dedue's neck. 

Dedue bundled him up in even more blankets and put him into the bed, then sat down on the edge to tuck him in. "Sleep more. I will check on you every hour." 

Ashe nodded. His eyelids flickered, but didn't close. Dedue had placed a candle by the bed; Ashe's hair glinted flatly in its modest light. Shadows tunneled at every dip and hollow of his face. 

"Ashe," Dedue said. An involuntary utterance. He would be surprised at himself, if he could feel anything other than the sudden icy rushing in his ears. 

"Yeah?" Ashe said. 

"I… am so relieved. All day, I kept thinking—that lake is a mile away." 

Ashe's lips crooked, a mirthless smile. It only made Dedue feel more torrential, more flooded with ruthless relief. 

"How…" 

He stopped himself. He should know better by now, to tempt fate. 

But Ashe said, "What is it?" so Dedue asked: 

"How did you make it all the way back?"

The blankets rose and fell as Ashe breathed. He looked away, then back. "I wanted to live," he said. 

——-

Dedue had thought he would just lie with Ashe until the blankets were warmed through with body heat. Surely between dozing with Ashe and the anxiety pulsing in his throat he wouldn't be able to sleep all night. He'd just stay for a little bit longer, then catch up on chores. 

He woke at dawn the next day to find Ashe curled against his side, his head on Dedue's bicep and his face in Dedue's chest. Their legs were tangled together, Ashe's toes cold against his shins. Soft breath tapped a rhythm into his shirt, just over his heart. 

Damn the chores, and damn his numb arm. Dedue resolved not to move until Ashe woke up. He would pretend to still be asleep, would not hold it against Ashe when he pulled away and pretended it had not happened. 

A fist closed around Dedue's shirt. 

"You stayed," Ashe said into his chest. His voice groggy, still a bit dazed. He made no move to pull away. 

Dedue hardly dared breathe. "How do you feel?" he whispered. 

Ashe tilted his head up, and Dedue grunted as pins and needles flooded into his arm. 

"Are you okay?" Ashe said. 

Dedue chuckled. "Am I okay?"

Ashe made a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh and a groan. 

And then he put a hand on Dedue's cheek and kissed him. 

Ashe's lips were cold, ringed with sandpaper stubble, his breath sour with sleep and the aftertaste of pine needle tea. A frisson swept through Dedue's body. He wanted to touch him—he held back—then gave into the impulse and cupped Ashe's cheek in his hand, calluses blunting the roughness of unshaven skin. His other arm, the one Ashe had lain on and still tingling, he raised to wrap around Ashe's head, slipping fingers through strawlike hair. Ashe shifted forward to help Dedue hold him even closer, never breaking the kiss. Their hips slotted together. Dedue made a noise low in his chest, his mouth falling open, and Ashe's tongue slipped in, light on his lower lip, warm on his own tongue. 

Then Ashe gasped and it was over, Dedue suddenly cold as Ashe rolled away and sat up, hands in his hair. 

"I'm sorry," he said at the same time Ashe said, "I'm sorry." 

Dedue sat up as well. "You do not need to be sorry." 

Ashe laughed, hollow. "You don't…" He shook his head. The mattress creaked as he got up, then hesitated by the bedside. "I'm sorry, Dedue. I can't… we can't. Trust me. It would ruin everything." 

"I don't understand," said Dedue. 

"I know," Ashe whispered. "I'm sorry." 

Then he opened the door and was gone. 

————

Dedue dressed for the day. Trousers, two pairs of knitted socks, overshirt, his worn-down quilted gambeson with its many stitched-up holes from the war, whose missing button Ashe fixed just a week ago. His gloves and scarf. 

Ashe was in the kitchen. Dedue could hear him stoking the fire. He left the inn through the front door and circled back around to the grove of apple trees. The gray branches were tipped with little green nubs. 

That afternoon, when he returned to the inn for lunch, Ashe was waiting for him. 

"Dedue," he began. "I should…" 

"No need," Dedue interrupted. "You have nothing to explain to me." 

"Oh." Ashe cleared his throat and looked away. "...Thanks." 

"That smells good," said Dedue. "What is it?"

Ashe dragged the back of his hand over his eyes and turned to the hearth. "It's just bone broth with potatoes. I lost all my game yesterday when I fell."

Dedue crossed to the pot hanging over the fire and inhaled. "You added chicory root and rosemary?"

"It's all we had." Ashe picked up a small wooden bowl, smaller than Dedue's palm, and held it out. Inside was a pile of needle-like leaves. "I saved some extra rosemary for you, because you like it more than me." 

"Thank you, Ashe." Their fingers almost brushed as Ashe passed the bowl to him. 

For a moment, Dedue stood still, holding the bowl near his chest. It had become harder to look at Ashe. To look at him directly might be more than Dedue could bear. He said: "It has gotten quite warm outside. The apple trees have budded." 

"That's great!" said Ashe. 

"Yes. It means you and I no longer have to share a bed for warmth." 

"Oh." Ashe put down the bowl he'd been ladling soup into. "I see. Yeah, that's…" 

"For the best?" 

"Yeah." Ashe set the bowl in front of Dedue, then turned his back to ladle himself a bowl. "That's for the best." 

They finished their meal in stilted silence. 

That night, Dedue woke with a shiver. 

It was surely past midnight, though he couldn't see out the shuttered windows. The empty room was cold, so cold the air tasted of frost. 

Dedue shook his head. It was nearly spring. Had he really gotten that used to sleeping next to a warm body?

He rolled over and tried to fall back asleep but no matter how he lay, he could not get warm. So finally Dedue got up to get more blankets from an empty room. 

The first room he went into had been stripped, its mattress bare. The second as well. He had to go to the floor above to find blankets. Finally, back in his own room and under an unwieldy pile of knit blankets and scraggly furs, he settled into an uncomfortable sleep. 

It was only next morning, when he went down to the kitchen and found Ashe standing at the back door, staring out at two feet of fresh snow with more still falling, did he realize a snowstorm had rolled in. 

When Ashe turned around, his face was haggard. "We should have prepared for this." 

"We still can," said Dedue.

All regular chores were dropped to cope with the storm. Ashe brought in firewood, fashioned a pair of snowshoes out of bedsheets and branches, then left to hunt. Dedue shoveled out the garden, big sweeping scoops and then cautious, gentle scrapings, then went inside to gather up all the spare blankets he could find. 

When he got back to the garden another inch had fallen, so he had to clear that out with his fingers before draping the blankets over the dark earth and tender shoots. Then he shoveled his way to the treeline, to his little cluster of apple trees. He couldn't help the little groan that escaped his lips when he reached them. 

The buds had frozen on the branches. 

Dedue brushed the snow off as best he could. He didn't have enough blankets for every branch of every tree. Should he start with the saplings, to keep them alive for years to come, or the older trees, in hopes of a harvest? 

He chose the older trees, using the last of his blankets to cover their branches. Then he went back inside, stripped his bed of the extra blankets he had taken last night to warm himself, and brought them outside to swaddle the saplings. 

When he returned to the inn, Ashe was at the kitchen table, dressing a deer. Three rabbits and a wild turkey hung over the fire, waiting to be skinned. 

Ashe glanced up. "I thought you would bring in an apple tree cutting, or replant one of the smaller trees." 

"It is too soon for that," said Dedue. "The trees will endure." He nodded at the table. "The storm will be long over before we can eat that much meat." 

Ashe looked at him. "You and me, yeah. But what if the inn has guests?"

"There are no guests now, and it is unlikely that any on the road will make it to us in this weather." 

"But if they do, they'll be hungry. I just wanted us to have enough to feed them." Ashe's jaw was set, his brow crinkled. He wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, leaving a little smear of blood on his skin. Dedue's heart beat a little faster. "Would you mind helping me with the turkey?" Ashe said, plunging his dagger back into the deer. 

"In a moment." Dedue crossed the kitchen and picked up a lantern hanging by the door. He lit it with an ember from the hearth. 

"What are you doing?" Ashe asked. 

"Hanging this lantern out by the front door. The snow is falling hard, but perhaps a traveler will be able to see the light." 

"Oh." Ashe's eyebrows twisted. "Thank you, Dedue." 

"I will be right back." 

Ashe went up to bed first that night. Dedue pretended to follow him, but only to change into his sleeping shift and bring his blankets back down with him to the kitchen. If he had been too cold to sleep last night, he knew, he'd surely be too cold tonight. So he bedded down in front of the raked-over hearth instead. 

He woke to orange light and darkness, the glowing embers' halo and the shadows that stood watch at its perimeter. A noise had woken him. He recognized it when he heard it again: the soft pat of socked feet. 

Ashe lay down beside him. Perpendicular to Dedue, his head pointed toward the hearth, his feet in shadow. His teeth chattered on a deep exhale as he settled himself, and then it was quiet again. 

Dedue wanted to tilt his head back to look, but he knew he mustn't. So he lay still, muscles taut and breath even, and thought of pine needles and chapped lips and the tender scrape of an unshaven jaw. 

The snow kept falling. It turned to sleet and rain during the day, but froze over every night and had piled up again by the following morning. The sky was an endless, oppressive gray. Soon all traces of spring would be wiped away. Including the apple trees. 

It didn't matter that he spent most of the sunlit hours shoveling them out. They froze at night, and one by one the little green buds were turning brown. 

"We could bring at least one of the saplings inside," Ashe suggested on the second night of the snowstorm. "Plant it in a kettle, keep it in the kitchen." 

"Spring snowstorms happen all the time in Faerghus," said Dedue. "This is no different." 

Ashe shook his head doubtfully. "It was a hard winter. And now, with snow this late…" 

"A replanting is difficult on the tree as well." 

"But if it's the only way…" 

"Ashe," said Dedue, his voice soft. "The trees will endure it." 

Ashe looked at him. Looked away. The bones of his face stood out sharper than ever as he said, "Not everything can be endured." 

A new routine settled on top of their lives: Ashe, with his threadbare clothes and fur boots that the slushy snow soaked through within minutes, took the inside chores: patching the leaking roof, tanning the hides of the animals they'd hunted, turning deer fat into candle wax and goose feathers into arrow fletching. Dedue, with his slightly less threadbare quilted soldier's gambeson and his leather, waterproof boots, shoveled snow out of the garden and dug drainage ditches into half-frozen, half-muddy earth to shunt the water away from the inn and the garden. 

It should have been easier. Dedue was used to strenuous monotony. In the war he'd learned to detach himself from thought or pain, to chisel himself down to a single task, and then another, and then another. This would have been the same—

If it wasn't for the kiss.

The kiss had lodged itself deep inside him, subterranean and seismic. Sometimes a gentle press on his throat or his ribcage. Sometimes a tremor in his hands or up his spine. Every detail had a part of him in its grasp. Just looking at Ashe was enough to take his breath away. 

They had not touched since the kiss, either. That was another thing that should have been easier. Dedue had gone longer than this without feeling another person's touch on his skin, or even feeling the pressure of a hand or shoulder through leather and fabric. But just the memory of waking up with his legs entwined with Ashe's, the soft hairs brushing together as they stirred, could unearth things Dedue had long since buried. As the snow piled up outside and the two of them layered threadbare blankets on their shivering bodies at night, just the whisper-touch of shared body heat carved years and scars and disappointments off of his body. He felt warm and exposed, tender and scared. He was under siege, and he longed for defeat. 

There was nothing for it but to endure. 

But that wasn't working either. The apple trees were dying. 

Half of the buds were brown now. When the roots weren't frozen solid, they were in danger of rot. For the first time, the possibility—the likelihood—the inevitability—that this grove of apple trees would die in this snowstorm seeped into him. 

In all the years of the war, all the fallen friends and losing battles, Dedue had never surrendered. But that's what he did on the seventh day of the snowstorm, when he drove a shovel into the crunchy earth around an apple tree sapling and wrested its roots free of ice and snow. He put the tree into the kettle they used for making soup, packed extra earth around it, and retreated back inside. 

He placed the tree next to the kitchen hearth and plunged his hands into the dirt, turning it over in his fingers to soften and warm it. 

"Oh, Dedue." 

He turned. Ashe was in the doorway leading upstairs, a bushel of arrows in his hand and a strange look on his face. 

"Dedue," he said again. "Thank you for doing that" 

Dedue made to protest. It was just repotting a plant. But the words lodged in his throat. 

"I should have done it sooner," is what he managed instead. 

To his surprise, Ashe's eyes welled up with tears. Ashe dropped his arrows, and crossed the room to kneel beside Dedue and the tree. Then he put his arms around Dedue's waist, and held him. 

For a long moment Dedue held still, as if any movement could shatter this before it began. But Ashe didn't pull away, so Dedue put one arm, then another, around Ashe's shoulders. They were bony but strong, broad and curved like a half-drawn bow as Ashe leaned into him. 

"Damn it," said Ashe. He pulled his head back to look at the tree sapling, then at Dedue. His face in the silvery morning light was twisted in agony. "Dedue," he said. "Can I--I want to kiss you." 

Dedue had no words. He had nothing. His fingers slid across the layers of threadbare cloth on Ashe's back, across the freckled skin on the nape of his neck, the bristly tips of his split-ends. The air smelled like wet earth and fireplace smoke. He said, "Yes"

Ashe bowed his head, pressed it into Dedue's chest. Then he looked up. "I have to tell you something." His face twisted, almost like guilt. "But first..." 

Then he leaned forward without waiting, placed both hands on Dedue's cheeks. Closed the distance and Dedue barely had to dip his chin to meet his lips. 

Ashe tasted like sourdough and angelica tea. He tasted like home. Dedue felt naked. Like more than armor and clothes had come off his body; he felt like years of scars and pains and dense muscle had sloughed off him. He felt soft and light and new. 

Then Ashe pulled away. 

"You don't know how long I've... I shouldn't—I shouldn't—I should just let this happen, let you think that I—but I have to. Dedue, I have to tell you. And when I do…" 

Ashe took a deep, steadying breath. His eyes were sad and unafraid. 

"Well," he said. "I'll let you decide what happens after that." 

"Ashe," said Dedue. "I do not understand." 

Ashe bowed his head. For a long, long moment he was quiet. So long that Dedue's heart started to pound again. 

"Ashe…" he began. 

"In the war," said Ashe. "I fought for the Empire." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is tough for me to write: I dislike writing prose and often lean heavily on dialogue to get through a scene, but Dedue and post-VW Ashe (or at least my interpretation of him) aren't very talkative, so I have to fill the long silences with nothing but prose. At least I think I've been getting some good descriptive practice in.   
> In any case, the next chapter will have a lot more dialogue because Ashe has a story to tell!


	3. Melting Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashe tells a story. Dedue comes to a crossroads.

Dedue had never felt so cold. 

"What did you say?" he said. Giving Ashe a chance to take it back. To say he was kidding, or that Dedue had misheard. 

But Ashe continued, with leaden resignation, "When the Empire first marched into Faerghus six years ago, Gaspard was the first to fall. The Empire arrived just a day after I returned from the monastery. My brother and sister were there, too. We held out for a week. Then the news came that Dimitri was dead." Ashe's face was gray and drawn. "I knew that meant you were dead, too."

Without meaning to, Dedue met his gaze. He would have shivered, if he could move at all under this crushing weight. 

"I surrendered. The Adrestians took the castle, and locked my siblings and I in the dungeon. I lost track of how long we were down there. Then I was brought to Fhirdiad, told to pledge to Duchess Cornelia, of the Dukedom of Faerghus.” 

“Edelgard’s puppet,” Dedue said. 

"A real knight would never have done it. A real knight would never have surrendered in the first place. Even if Dimitri was dead… After all, that didn't stop _you—_ " that word, the simple "you," loosed with a reverent tenderness, drove straight into his chest— "But I… 

Ashe shook his head. 

"They still had my brother and sister, so...So I did it. I pledged myself to her. They let me go home, let my brother and sister out of the dungeon. I thought they would leave us alone. I was so stupid. They wanted me to fight with the Empire and Dukedom’s forces, against the eastern lords. Ingrid, Felix, Sylvain. I did that, too. Three sallies on Fraldarius territory. In the fourth, I saw Felix across the battlefield. I ran away. I put an arrow in my leg to make it look like a retreat. When I got home, I broke my arm. My sister helped me do it. Once that healed, my foot. For five years, I avoided most of the fighting that way. But I couldn't avoid all of it. I never saw any more of our classmates on the battlefield in those years, but I… I killed seven Faerghus soldiers, all told. 

“And then… I was ordered to march with Sir Gwendal and House Rowe troops to Aillel. They didn’t tell me who we were fighting. Sir Gwendal said it didn’t matter, that it was our duty. He…” Ashe looked up. “He reminded me of you, actually. I don’t think he wanted to be fighting for Edelgard, but Count Rowe had ordered him, and he had pledged himself to Count Rowe… and in the end, he died for it. Professor Byleth killed him. That’s who we’d been sent to fight. The Leicester Alliance. They were there to rendezvous with reinforcements, and we had been sent to stop them. It was over so fast—the Alliance routed us.”

“How did you survive?” Dedue asked, and his stomach curdled. He hadn’t meant it to come out so accusatory, and yet— 

But Ashe didn’t seem to mind. “Sir Gwendal split our troops into two wings. I lead one, him the other. And… for whatever reason… the Leicester Alliance targeted Sir Gwendal’s wing first. And when Sir Gwendal died, the Rowe soldiers scattered… and the Alliance left. Everyone was gone but me. Maybe I should have… should have gone after the Alliance, surrendered to them. Maybe I should have gone west to Galatea and surrendered to Ingrid. But… my brother and sister were still in Gaspard, so...” 

Ashe’s voice cracked. 

"I went back to the Empire. I went back. They kept me at Gaspard after that. I think they suspected I'd betrayed them at Aillel, but they had no proof, because, if I had, why had I come back? I was in Gaspard when I heard about… about Gronder Field." 

Dedue hung his head. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. It wasn't until Dedue raised his eyes that Ashe—as if he needed the weight of Dedue's gaze on him to speak—continued: 

"I didn't know Prince Dimitri was still alive until they told me he'd died at Gronder. I heard you were there, too, and it was like… it was like losing you all over again. Ever since that day, I've asked myself… if I'd known, before Gronder, that His Highness was still alive, would I have gone to him? Would I have done my duty as a knight… even if my brother and sister were still in the Empire's hands? And the answer is… I don't know."

Ashe shook his head violently. 

"No, that's a lie. I do know. The answer is, no. I've been protecting them for longer than I'd wanted to be a knight. I would have broken any oath for them." Ashe gritted his teeth. His eyes were red and blotchy but bone-dry. "I'm not strong like you, Dedue." 

Dedue could not find the breath to answer.

Ashe continued: 

"After that, Claude and Professor Byleth had more important things to think about than me. everyone forgot about me, I guess, until the Alliance took Enbarr and people started looking around to see who was left. That's when the Leicester troops came, and brought me to Garreg Mach. The… council, or whatever it was, they couldn't let me be Lord Gaspard, not after I crossed swords with them. But the professor was kind, again… they interceded on my behalf, argued to make my sister Lady Gaspard on the condition I never returned to the territory. So… that's what I did. I said good-bye to my sister and brother and… headed north. The rest you already know."

Silence in the kitchen, but for the inn's soft creaking in the puttering wind. The sun had come out, turning the snow to wet sleet, bathing the room in oblivious afternoon light. Dedue could endure this interminable silence for as long as it lasted, but whatever came next—wasn't it sure to be worse? 

He said, finally: "Why?" 

"Why what?" said Ashe. 

"Why are you telling me this?"

Ashe, who hadn't looked away from Dedue's face one throughout his story, dropped his gaze to his hands. "Because I can't keep secrets from the person that I love." 

Dedue felt like his bones were caving in. Ribs that caught arrows and blades, shoulders that had borne dead friends, a back that had stood beside a king and against an emperor, all collapsed under this new, unbearable gravity. 

"Ashe…" he said. 

"I know," said Ashe. 

"No," said Dedue. "I do not think you do." He stood up. "I have to… to go." That wasn't quite what he meant to say, not all of it, but it was all he could find. 

Ashe hung his head, his legs crossed beneath him on the floor, his elbows on his knees and his lank hair hiding his face. He said nothing. 

Dedue left the room. 

He went upstairs to the room he'd been staying in, and found the burlap sack he'd stashed under the bed. Inside was his armor. Dedue put it on, piece by cold iron piece. This weight, at least, was familiar to him. 

When he came back down, Ashe watched him with dull red eyes as he crossed to the inn's front door. He hadn't moved—not until he noticed Dedue's direction. 

"Dedue, wait! The storm—I'll go instead—" 

Dedue opened the door, and looked back into the kitchen. How to say this? Once again, he found only: "Stay here, Ashe. Please." 

Then he stepped outside into the storm, and closed the door on Ashe's stunned face. 

He took the road heading south. 

————

Dedue walked for hours along the Magdred Way, dragging iron-clad feet through heavy snowdrifts. Noon passed, but the sky only got brighter, the white of the sky fading into eggshell-blue before dissolving into scraps and tufts of thinning clouds. The snow sweated through his boots; he had been careless with the lacings. He kept going. 

He almost missed the signpost. 

Rough wooden boards nailed to a stripped-down tree trunk at a crossroads on the Magdred Way. The arrow pointing east said, FHIRDIAD. The arrow pointing south, ENBARR.

There had been an arrow pointing north, but the board had been torn down. 

Dedue looked at the sign. Then, beneath a wispy lavender sunset, he took his armor off, piece by piece, and buried it in the snow drifts around the sign. Then he found a tree, used his axe to cut off a thick branch and chop it into a flat board. On its flat surface, with the corner of the axe, he carved the word DUSCUR, and an arrow. 

With the belt that had secured his pauldrons, Dedue lashed the board to the sign, making sure the arrow was pointing north. 

Finally, Dedue turned around, and followed the arrow he had carved. Back up the Magdred Way. 

Toward home. 

It was late when he reached the inn. The temperature had dropped again as night fell and his feet were cold, but not frozen. The storm had finally broken. Winter was over. 

Dedue knocked on the inn door. Listened to the approaching footsteps, almost too faint to hear under his own thudding heart. 

Ashe opened the door. He had a candle in one hand; its small orange light cupped his face, sharp on his cheekbones, warm on every freckle, glowing on every hair. Then the light guttered out as the candle toppled to the ground, puttering out in the snow as Ashe clapped a hand to his face.

"D-Dedue?" he said through his fingers. 

"Ashe," said Dedue. He had spent the whole trip south and back working on these words. "I upheld my vows beyond all expectations, beyond even my lord's death twice over. And when it was over—he was still dead, and the things I despise about this world were still the same." Dedue took a deep breath. "You are no knight… and neither am I."

Though his face was in shadow, Dedue could see Ashe's eyes, flickering between his. 

Dedue raised his hands, palms up, and cupped Ashe's hands in his own.

"I want to live here, with you. I want to see that apple tree sapling grow into a tree. I want to be with you, Ashe. There is just one thing I must do."

Ashe's thumbs brushed against his knuckles. Smooth, worn-down calluses gentle against cold, cracked skin, encouraging. 

Dedue said, "I am going to Duscur. Will you come with me?"

The last of the clouds blew away, dousing them both in silvery moonlight as Ashe's thin lips curved into a smile. "When do we leave?"

Dedue gripped Ashe's hands tighter. If he didn't, he might float away. Ashe's question had many answers— _soon, when the snow melts, whenever you are ready_ —but they bumped against each other, muddled and clumsy on his tongue. 

So instead, Dedue stepped forward and kissed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thanks so much for reading this fic, everyone. 
> 
> If I were to go back and edit it, I'd give Ashe a slight limp to foreshadow the broken foot, and I would find some way to put the crossroads sign in at the beginning. But I'm not, so I won't!!!!
> 
> Stay safe, wash your hands, and stan Dedue/Ashe <3 
> 
> Follow me on twitter @cdromelle

**Author's Note:**

> If you've played the Verdant Wind timeline without recruiting Ashe you might know where this is going. Either way, please stay with me! Next and final chapter will be posted this week. 
> 
> Also, Ashe's guest at the inn is Dart from Fire Emblem 7. Dart is a pirate who served with a captain named Farghus. I couldn't help myself :D


End file.
